


Hey Moon

by indigostohelit



Category: Captain America (2011), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - High School, Cold War, Greasers, Jocks, M/M, Rod Serling, Sputnik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is big, and empty, and fake, and their feet are tangled together on the bedsheets, and Steve's watching Tony, and Tony's watching the stars. From the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Привет всем тем, кто на Луне](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6304696) by [Happy_me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happy_me/pseuds/Happy_me)



> I highly suggest you google any references you don't get. They're not necessary to understand the story, but the '50s are awesome anyway.

They’re lying on Steve’s bed, reading comics by the glow of the book lamp attached to Steve’s headboard. The evening is growing. The sun's mostly escaped from the bedroom by now, a few golden trails of light still hanging on the windowsill.

Tony’s belly is full of Mrs. Roger’s dinner, and the casual intimacy and laughter of the Rogers’ dinner table sits warm in his chest like only beer used to. Steve’s twirling a pen between his fingers as he watches Stargirl deliver a hard kick to the Ascholist’s chin, and Tony can tell he’s itching to draw it.

There’s algebra homework scattered over the carpet, half-done for Steve, completed with small corrections to the problems for Tony. Steve’s varsity jacket is hung up neatly in the closet, bright in blue and gold, and next to it is Tony’s jean jacket. The two brush against each other, casually, as if there’s nothing between them.

Underneath the varsity jacket, Steve’s got a red T-shirt and jeans, just like any normal American boy who’d take his girl to the movies and buy her popcorn. Underneath the jean jacket, Tony’s got a black wifebeater, and he’s wearing jeans, too. Their feet, now, their feet are bare, and they’ve become tangled together at the foot of the bed without either Tony or Steve really thinking about it, a dry and dusty contact.

Tony isn’t supposed to be here. His dad doesn’t know where he is right now. He doesn’t care; he’d gotten home from school and the house had been too big and too cold and too empty to bear.

Steve’s used to this kind of thing. There’s a little park on his walk home from school, and it’s not the first time Tony’s strolled out of it, whistling Chuck Berry casually, and fallen into step with him. Tony says, “Carry your books for you, ma’am?” without a hint of irony.

“I hear the Russians are doing something big this week,” says Steve, handing over his books easily. “Sending a little camera up into space to spy on us all.”

“Sputnik, Steve,” says Tony with a sigh, and looks like he wants to run a hand through his hair and thinks better of it. “It’s called Sputnik.”

“Sputnik, huh?” says Steve. “If it works, maybe they’ll send some men to Mars and find little green-skinned aliens with ray guns.”

“Maybe they’ll send men to the moon,” says Tony, almost dreamily.

“I’d like to go to the moon,” says Steve, surprising even himself. In a town as small as this, the farthest he’d like to go is to college to play football.

“Yeah?” says Tony, and he looks a little pleased, and his eyes are a little soft. “If it works, I’ll send you there. Promise.”

Steve says, “My mom’s making meatballs.”

The sun’s almost faded from the windowsill, now. Tony thinks he can see the hint of a star in the lilac wash of the sky. He sees, suddenly, a great movie set built around them: the cardboard props of the houses of the town, the painted backdrop of the evening, the actors of his friends and family and classmates mouthing their lines, miming their roles, dressing in costumes every morning to play a part they don’t believe.

“Look,” says Steve, and taps a panel in the comic book. Tony bends closer to look. It’s a little green man with three eyes, waving a stick and shouting in tiny lettering, _take me to your leader_.

“Once the Russians meet the Martians,” says Steve, with absolute confidence, “they’ll waste all their energy blowing each other up, and we can stop having those bomb alerts during Art.”

“Once the Russians meet the Martians, I think we’ll have a lot more to worry about than bomb alerts,” says Tony.

“Like Truman Bradley narrating everything for the rest of our natural lives?” says Steve, referencing _Science Fiction Theatre_ , and Tony sniggers.

“You know who should narrate our lives?” Steve says. “Rod Serling.”

“The guy from Playhouse 90?” says Tony, raising an eyebrow. “He’s too political. What, do I want him talking about racism in the middle of a date I’m having with some gal? His career isn’t going anywhere.”

“Just you wait,” says Steve, “someday Rod Serling is going to be a household name.”

 “Not if the Martians attack,” says Tony. “Wait, no, _only_ if the Martians attack,” and Steve laughs against his side, low and rumbling, and a shiver goes up Tony’s spine. They’re pressed together so closely, Steve’s T-shirt riding up his back, shoulder to shoulder, nearly cheek to cheek.

“You going home tonight?” says Steve quietly.

Tony says in nearly a whisper, “Can I stay?” Because the house is too big, and too empty, and his father probably hasn’t even noticed he’s gone, and Steve’s mom’s meatballs are warm in his stomach and the feeling of love is all around him, like a heavy blanket. Because the world is a movie set and the actors are lousy, and when Steve’s around, he can take off the costume. Because the star he saw hovering in the plum background of the sky, that quivering, twinkling star, well, he thinks it might be moving, and maybe he’ll get to send Steve to the moon after all.

“Sure,” says Steve. “You can stay whenever you want.”

They read comic books until midnight, pressed against each other like that. Somewhere along the way, Tony’s hand finds its way into Steve’s hair and begins carding it, his fingers running through it gently, and Steve imperceptibly leans into his touch. Somewhere along the way, their eyes meet, and their lips press together, ever so gently. There’s a sudden silence, and all around, a warm, warm heat.

It takes a long time for them to turn the page. 


End file.
